The Orc and the War
by Nodam
Summary: Gruickshak will be free... (Sequel to the Orc and the Cat, this is the last in the Brekyeir trilogy)
1. Chapter 1: New home, new problems

Morning rose once again on Ivarstead, the sunlight bouncing off the rooves of the homes, and across the snowy fields. The fields were mostly barren, a few growing sparse patches of carrots and potatoes. A few kilometers over, a field of corn ran as far as they eye could see. Enormous stalks, big enough to dwarf a horse, stood lining the fields in the carefully plowed soil. These were the fields belonging to Gruickshak the orc. He was a simple, gentle (unless provoked) orc who had seen his fair share of adventure and violence, and had decided to spend the rest of his days peacefully growing corn. And he had gotten very, _very _good at it. He plowed the fields himself, sometimes plowing for days on end, making sure that the soil was just right to grow the corn in this unforgiving province. Gruickshak was, by any standards, orc or nord, dunmer or altmer, a hero. He had delved through dungeons, fought giant spiders, sabre cats, Draugr and even a Dragon. He had dealt with a Daedric prince, made friends with a half demon, half dog and saved a city from invading Imperials. And through all his adventures, he had his axe, Brekyeir, by his side. It was a light blue axe made from dragon bones, bones that were prone to glowing different colours whenever something exciting was happening. He had found Brekyeir in a tavern in Solitude with his brother Gretkar, and the axe had been nothing but trouble since. But Gruickshak assumed that no matter where he went, trouble would find him anyways, so he kept the axe with him. But now, in Ivarstead, retired from his exciting and stressful life of raiding tombs and slaying monsters, Gruickshak was finally happy. Here, people treated him like any other citizen, although it wasn't easy at first. Many people did not trust him, but slowly warmed up to him after they realized that his corn had become the main export of their little village. Gruickshaks corn had made him very rich, but he didn't care for money. He had a modest little house near his farm, and much of his money was spent at taverns or tossed to children playing in the streets. Although nobody knew of his actions in Riften, Gruickshak had become the "Hero of Ivarstead", a name the people had affectionately given him when he stopped a rampaging giant with a single blow. But like always, Gruickshaks life would never be truly peaceful as long as that evil, ancient artifact sat above his glowing fireplace.

Windhelm was alive with celebration. The Stormcloak rebels had driven out the head Imperials once, two years ago, but the Imperial prescence remained in Skyrim. Ambitious Imperial commanders such as Captain Dericus attacked cities such as Riften and Whiterun, but the Nords banded together for one final push, and finally, after years upon years of civil war, the bloody Imperials had been driven out of Skyrim. The Nords smashed their flagons together in celebration, drinking and feasting until night became dawn. But, for some reason, the ones who had the most reason to celebrate were solemnly strategizing in Windhelms keep. Jarl and King Ulfric Stormcloak stood with his most trusted advisor Galmar Stonefist stood over a map of Skyrim stretched out across a table. Blue tokens were used to mark Stormcloak forces, and the red tokens were used to mark Imperial forces. But there were no red tokens this time, but black ones. These signified orcs.

"A horde attacked Dawnstar this morning." Galmar said while moving a black token to the Dawnstar marker. "They were held off but not defeated. They are camped out nearby, doing gods know what."

Ulfric rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He removed his crown, as it was weighing down his head and his neck was sore. He hated that thing, that empty symbol of leadership. He loved the position, but he hated the crown.

"And there's still a force outside Morthal?" Ulfric asked, troubled.

"Yes." Galmar responded. "And somehow they know where supply routes and reinforcements are coming. Morthal and Dawnstar haven't had fresh food or new troops in weeks."

"They've been intercepting supplies?" Ulfric asked for clarification, as he was now deeply troubled.

"Yes." Galmar repeated. "They have spies. They figure if they starve out the smaller cities we won't notice. We captured one of these spies ourselves, but not before watching him massacre nine soldiers first."

"This spy..." Ulfric asked "Is he in Windhelm?"

Galmar nodded and began walking out of the room. Ulfric followed him and the made their way through a series of hallways and down the staircase before reaching the dungeons. They reeked of filth and decay. Petty criminals were kept in the other holds, but Winterhelm was home to the worst of the worst, the mass murderers and war criminals. Many Imperial commanders spent their final days rotting in these cells. They reached a cell that was just barely lit enough to see the silhouette of an enormous beast kneeling in the center or the cell, facing the wall.

"This orc..." Ulfric whispered to Galmar. "Did he say his name?"

"Rojjek..." the orc interrupted, in a guttural, spine tingling voice. "Rojjek Warmonger."


	2. Chapter 2: Ivarstead was silent

"We're ready when you are Ulfric...just say the word."

"Do it."

A knock sounded on the battered wooden door that Gruickshak had salvaged from his old home. Gruickshak stood up from his table, pushing the bench aside and sliding his meal of corn and mammoth meat forwards. He removed the little napkin he had tucked down his collar and went to answer the door. He unslid the little metal lock and chain and opened the door. There was nobody there.

"Mr. Grukshock?" a little voice came from below. He looked down to see Myrande, the innkeepers daughter. She stood there with her hands in front of her in a little red dress. It pleased Gruickshak to see children unafraid of orcs...although there are always some orcs one has to be wary of. Not all were as kind and goodhearted as Gruickshak.

"There will be a celebration at the inn at sundown. Mead and food will be free. You're invited." The girl said, as though reciting from a script.

"Whats the celebration for?" Gruickshak asked.

"For the Stormcloak victory!" the girl said, very matter of factly.

Gruickshak smiled and put his hand on the girls head. "I would be honoured to come."

The little girl giggled and ran off towards the inn. Gruickshak stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The air was cold, yet very refreshing. Snowflakes danced across Ivarstead and towards the mountains. Gruickshak looked around the little village. There was nobody to be seen. The town was quiet. Very quiet. Gruickshak stepped back inside and opened his wooden chest, rummaging through it for a half decent pair of clothes. He had a party to prepare for.

Rojjek Warmonger sat hunched over in his cell, not having moved for days. Just thinking. Preparing. A man came to his cell door. It was Galmar Stonefist, the kings right hand man, or as Rojjek liked to call him, Ulfric's bitch. Rojjek had no respect for Nords. All they did was drink, eat, sleep, and drink some more. Celebrating shallow victories, cheering to their honour and glory. They knew no honour. When Rojjek became the warchief of his tribe, he first had to fight and murder the previous warchief, his father. His father had to do the same to his father, and his father to his grandfather. To look your father in the eye while you plunged a sword into his chest, to see the look of pride in his eyes, that was honour. To hunt every living thing in the forest for a feast, that was a celebration.

"Am I going to be executed?" Rojjek growled.

"No..." Galmar chuckled. "We have something much better in plan for you."

The sun had set, and Gruickshak had found his best feasting clothes, a set of blue cloth garments that reeked of mead. Nobody would be able to tell the difference once inside the inn. Gruickshak walked through the village and towards the inn. He walked up the stairs and noticed that there was no shouting and cheering coming from inside the inn. It was silent. Gruickshak opened the door, and the inn was completely empty, save for Sam, the inn keeper, who scrubbed the bar with a wet cloth. Gruickshak came in and closed the door behind him.

"Am I early?" Gruickshak asked. "Did I miss it? Please don't tell me I missed it."

Sam motioned for him to come closer, and Gruickshak walked in beside the fire. "Myrande said it was at sundown..."

Sam looked up at him, a pained look in his eyes, tears rolling down his cheek.

"Gruickshak..." he said softly. "I'm so... I'm so sorry."

There was a shout and a twang of bows as four arrows plunged into Gruickshaks thick skin. Two in the back, one in the arm and one in his knee. He dropped to the ground and let out a ferocious roar. Six guards emerged from the shadows, sword and axes drawn. Gruickshak reached for his axe, but then realized it wasn't there. He wasn't expecting an ambush. The guards rushed at him, and he mercilessly knocked one aside, sending it sprawling into the fireplace, screaming in agony. Another came up behind him, and Gruickshak grabbed the small round table and spun it around, knocking the guard on its back. Another arrow met its mark on Gruickshaks shoulder, plunging in further than the others. He howled again, and spun around, only to see the blunt of a handaxe hurtling towards his skull. It connected with a bone crunching noise, and then all was black.

Outside, the snow stopped falling. Ivarstead was silent. Very silent. Too silent.


End file.
